Catherine smiled.
I said, “I’ve not told you this before . . . but my own mother died when I was two. Of bone-marrow cancer. Sebastian married Christa about two years later. They had Luciana together. But Christa was an alcoholic. Sebastian put her in a clinic. To dry out. She never came back to live with us. He didn’t want her around us. Or anywhere near him. I think he despised her.”
“So Antoinette was a friend of your father’s? Or was she his lover?”
“Yes, his mistress. We were together for six years. All of us. In Connecticut and here at the château. They were wonderful years. Whatever I am today, she helped to make me. Any good there is in me comes from her. From her influence. And her love.”
“That’s such a lovely thing to say. So touching. And she must have been quite unique. No wonder you call her your Special Lady. But why was she only with you for six years?”
“She died.”
“Oh Jack, I’m sorry. How tragic. She can’t have been very old. What did she die of?”
“She had an accident. At least everyone said it was an accident. She fell down the basement steps at Sebastian’s farm. She died instantly. She broke her neck.”
“Why do you say, everyone said it was an accident in that peculiar tone of voice, as if you don’t think it was?” Catherine’s eyes fastened on mine.
I didn’t respond. I looked away.
“Do you think she was murdered?”
“I’ve never known what to think,” I said at last, turning to her. “It seems odd that she was going into the basement. In the early hours of the morning. And if she was pushed, who could’ve done it? Who would’ve wanted to anyway? Sebastian was in Manhattan. On business. Aldred was at the farm. He was my father’s major domo. We were there. Luciana and me. And her nanny. And the housekeeper. Sebastian arrived at about seven. From New York. He said he’d come up early to go riding with Antoinette. But I’ve often wondered about that.”
“Are you suggesting that Sebastian pushed her?”
“I don’t know.” I’d never confided this to anyone else before. I took a deep breath. Then I plunged. “He might have,” I muttered.
“But why?”
“I don’t know.”
Catherine shook her head slowly. “Shades of Amy Robsart.”
“Who’s Amy Robsart?” I asked.
“She was married to Lord Robert Dudley, and on September the eighth in the year 1560 her body was found at the foot of the staircase in Cumnor Hall, where she was then living. Her death caused a terrible flurry at the time, became something of a cause célèbre, and in fact, it rocked the whole of England. You see, Robert Dudley was the closest friend of Queen Elizabeth the First. They were actually childhood friends. He was her dearest and most beloved companion. Never far from her sight. After she became Queen of England she bestowed many honors on him. He had a very high rank at court, and he was her Master of the Horse—”
“And rumored to be the Queen’s lover. If I remember my British history correctly,” I volunteered.
Catherine nodded. “That’s right. Amy’s death was a mystery, and some people tried to implicate Robert Dudley. Even the Queen was under suspicion briefly. But since he was at court with Queen Elizabeth he couldn’t have pushed her himself.”
“But he might have hired someone to push her . . . is that what you’re getting at?”
“More or less. Certainly the stakes were high enough.”
“In what sense?”
“With his wife’s death, Robert Dudley was a free man . . . free to marry Queen Elizabeth.”
“Would that have been possible?”
“Constitutionally, yes. And she did love him. Just as he loved her. But Elizabeth Tudor didn’t want to marry anyone. Not really She didn’t want to share her power. In any case, I don’t think he was involved or implicated in his wife’s death. Neither was the Queen. She was far too smart to be a party to that kind of thing. As you know, I earned a doctorate in English history. What you don’t know is that I specialized in the Tudor period. It’s my forte. And in my opinion, Amy Robsart Dudley killed herself. I’ve actually written about this.”
“And she did it because of her husband’s involvement with the Queen?”
“No. Amy was known to have cancer of the breast. She was ill, and she may have grown despondent. Anyway, that’s my considered opinion. She did herself in by throwing herself down the stairs.”
“Antoinette wasn’t ill,” I remarked, thinking out loud. “The autopsy would have brought that to light. If she had been. So I suppose her death was an accident.”
“I think it must have been. I didn’t know your father, but I doubt very much that he would commit such a crime. Or hire someone to do it for him. Why would he? What motive did he have? He wasn’t married to Antoinette. If he’d wanted to break up with her, he could have done so easily enough. He could have left her. It’s as simple as that. He didn’t have to resort to murder.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Catherine moved closer to me, put her arms around me, and held me tightly. “Don’t let something like this haunt you, as I believe it has been doing for years and years.”
“Off and on,” I admitted.
After a moment Catherine got out of bed and went into the bathroom.
I lay there thinking about my father. I wished she had not brought him up. Certainly not tonight. Not now. The discussion had been going on half the day. Ever since Vivienne’s phone call this morning.
I groaned under my breath. I was sick of it all. And I was relieved Vivienne was going to New York later this week. When she was pounding someone else about Sebastian Locke she was leaving me alone. Vivienne maddened me at times.
Catherine came back, gliding across the floor. She got into bed, curling up against me, kissing me lightly on the cheek.
“You don’t want this, do you, darling?” she asked as she took the brandy balloon out of my hands and put it on her bedside table.
“Well,” I began, but she stopped the flow of words with her lips.
She began to kiss me, lightly at first, but then the kisses became hot, fervent, passionate. Her tongue grazed mine as she slid it into my mouth. I kissed her hard, wrapping my arms around her body, pulling her on top of me as I did.
We stayed locked together for several moments. Then I broke away, cupped a hand under one of her breasts, and brought my mouth down to the nipple. I heard the soft groan in the back of her throat as I kissed her breast.
Eventually Catherine pulled away and trailed her mouth across my chest and onto my stomach. Then she slithered down in the bed. She crouched over me, touching me everywhere. Caressing the most vulnerable parts of me. I heard my own groans as she began to make love to me. She was a versatile lover. The most imaginative I’d known. Mindless fucking was not her style. Thankfully.
Her long hair trailed across my thighs and her mouth was suddenly on me, encircling me. I closed my eyes. Her warmth and softness enveloped me. Usually I became a potent lover within seconds, whenever she did this. Tonight nothing happened. I remained flaccid.
The foreplay was going on far too long. I soon began to realize that. She was growing tired. Suddenly, mortified and angry with myself, I stopped her ministrations. Gently I pushed her away.
Catherine was startled. She gaped at me.
“Be back in a minute,” I muttered and stumbled into the bathroom.
I locked the door and leaned against it.
I was breathing hard. That awful, familiar sick feeling was engulfing me. I knew it well. For a moment I thought I was going to vomit. Bring back the brandy. I felt nauseated, dizzy. I steadied myself. The feeling finally passed as I stood there in the darkened bathroom, gripping the door jamb.
I was impotent. Again. So far, until tonight, it had only happened twice with Catherine. At the beginning of our relationship. But not since. I had begun to believe that my problem had been cured. Apparendy not. “Merde,” I whispered. I snapped my eyes shut.
“Merde,” I said again.
Eventually the panic subsided. I grew calmer inside. Switching on the light, I crossed the room. I splashed cold water on my face, dried it, stood staring at myself in the mirror.
The image I saw reflected there was not Jack. It was a pale imitation of Sebastian Locke. I resembled him greatly. There was no denying whose son I was. Even though I had his features, mine were less distinct. They were not so well defined. Not so sculpted as his had been. True, my eyes were also blue. But diluted, watery. His had been blindingly blue. Brilliant in his tan face. My complexion was pale. I always looked washed out. His dark hair had been thick and wavy. Mine was dark too. And straight. I was not in the least bit dashing and dynamic. As he had been. Nor was I loaded with his kind of irresistible sex appeal.
I bet he was never impotent, I thought, continuing to stare at myself with a degree of disdain. I bet he had a permanent erection.
I hated being a faded carbon copy of that man. I hated being his son. I hated him. I hated the memory of him.
After gulping a glass of cold water, I steadied myself, pushed the anger down. Deep down inside. Buried it again. Taking total control of myself, I pushed open the door. Slowly I walked back into the bedroom.
Catherine had put on her robe. She was crouched in front of the fire. Staring into the flames. Looking pensive, lost. I took my silk robe from the bottom of the bed, slipped into it. Went to join her by the fireside. I sat down next to her on the rug.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, taking hold of her hand. “Too much wine. Followed by too much cognac.”
She was silent. She merely lifted her head and stared at me.
Again I said, “Sorry”
“It’s all right, Jack, really it is,” she murmured in her softest voice. She smiled and instantly the worried expression in her eyes evaporated. Lifting her shoulders in a slight shrug, she went on, “We’ve many more nights together, I hope . . . hundreds of nights. We do, don’t we, Jack?”
“Yes. I won’t drink so much in future. It won’t happen again,” I promised. I wondered if I was whistling in the dark.
Leaning forward, she kissed me lightly on the lips and touched my face. “Don’t look so concerned, so upset. It’s of no consequence.”
But it is. To me, I thought. I said, “You’re a beautiful woman, Catherine, a very desirable woman . . .”
Leaning back, Catherine looked into my face. Then she kissed me. I returned the kiss. When we drew apart she touched my mouth lightly, traced the line of my lips with her finger. Then she lay down with her head in my lap, gazing up at me unwaveringly.
Her eyes did not leave my face. I stared back at her intently. Wondering what was going on behind that lovely face.
After a moment or two, she said, “You’re very special to me, Jack. You’ve given me so much in the last few months. Love, warmth, understanding, tenderness, and passion. You must know how much I love you,” she continued, her voice low, vibrant. “You must know I’m in love with you, Jack.”
“Yes,” was all I dared to say.
I noticed a little smile playing around her mouth as she reached up with both arms. She placed them around my neck tightly and pulled me down to her. Kissing her swiftly, I broke free of her embrace. I was afraid. Afraid of being inadequate. I lay alongside her, resting on one elbow, staring into her face once more. She fascinated me.
“What is it, Catherine?” I whispered. “You look as if you have a big secret.”
“I don’t have one, though.”
“But you’re wearing a secretive sort of smile.”
“Not secretive. Smug, perhaps.”
“Why smug?”
“Because I have you. Because I’m with you. Because you’re the best lover I’ve ever had. Oh Jack darling—” She did not finish. She broke off, sighing deeply, contentedly. “I’ve never felt like this before. It’s never been like this for me. Never ever. Not with any other man. You excite me so much. I want you. I want you to make love to me. Now.”
“Oh Catherine . . . sweetheart. . .”
“Make love to me, Jack. Please.”
“Catherine, I don’t know . . .”
“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered and took off her robe, sitting up to do so, turning to smile at me.
She looked more ethereal than ever in the light from the fire. Her hair was a burnished coppery mass shot through with red and gold, tumbling down over her smooth white shoulders.
“Come to me, Jack,” she said, reaching out for me. “Take me. Make me yours again. I want to give myself to you. I want you. Only you, Jack.”
I felt the heat slowly rising in me. Desire began to throb through me as she spoke. Shrugging off my robe, I almost fell into her outstretched arms. I pushed aside my fear of failing her. I was going to take her. Love her as I had never loved her. Or any other woman.
I lay on top of her long, lithe body, fitting mine to hers. I kissed her neck and her breasts. I pushed my eager, trembling hands into the cloud of her red hair.
And as I continued to kiss her neck, her shoulders, and her face, she began to whisper to me. Her whispered words were tantalizing, erotic. They drove me on. Filled me with excitement.
It was not long before I found myself fully aroused. I was able to slide into her swiftly. Catherine clung to me. Her fingers pressed into my shoulder blades. She wound her long legs around my back and locked her ankles. I slipped my hands under her buttocks. Brought her closer to me. Finally I was truly joined to her.
I forgot everything. Everyone. I could think only of Catherine.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I understand why you never want to leave this place,” Catherine said, linking her arm through mine as she gazed out across the landscape. “It’s extraordinary. Breathtaking really. And quite magical.”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed. I was pleased with her. She had expressed my sentiments exactly. Captured in a few choice words what I felt about the estate.
Catherine and I stood on top of a hill, the highest point on my land. We were above the vineyards which grew on the slopes of the hillsides. They stopped short at the château’s gardens. To the right of the château were the woods; to the extreme left were the fields and the château’s farm. The Home Farm it was called.
Just beyond the farm was the winery There were many buildings clustered together, with vast cellars underground. It was here that the grapes were turned into wine.
I glanced around.
I saw the panoramic view as if through Catherine’s eyes. And it was a magical sight. The sky was a pure, pale blue. Very clear, blameless, without cloud. It was a bright, sun-filled afternoon. Almost balmy. Hardly any wind. It was only the middle of March. But spring was already here in Provence.
The land had undergone a change lately. I had noticed its sudden metamorphosis. New grass sprouting on the lawns. Tender green sprigs bursting open on the trees. Spring flowers shooting up in the gardens, brightening the many borders. They were vivid rafts of color against the dark soil.
I took a deep breath. The air here was clean, pure, bracing.
Turning to Catherine, I said, “I promised to show you the vineyards. Weeks ago now. So come on. Let’s go. I think there’s finally something to see.”
Taking hold of her hand, I led her along the narrow path that cut down through the first slope.
“Look!” I exclaimed. I was suddenly excited and bent down, hunkering close to the vines. “The buds are appearing. Here! And here!” I pointed them out to her.
Catherine crouched down to look. She said, in a surprised voice, “But they’re so tiny, Jack. I can’t believe they become grapes.”
“They do.”
“How does that happen? I know nothing about vineyards. Please explain to me.”
“I’ll give it a try. First let me tell you about the cycle of the vine. It begins with the winter rest. In February and March the sap rises. Now this—” I broke off, pointed to a bud. “This tiny thing is what we call a spri
ng bud. In April the budbreak occurs. That means the bud opens more fully. A few weeks later the leaves appear. By May the leaves open and spread out more fully. In June the vines will have started to flower. Later these flowers turn into very, very small grapes. Through July and August we will see their growth. Late August, early September, they start ripening. Finally, in October, the grapes are mature. In November the leaves fall. The cycle starts all over again. The winter rest begins, etcetera.”
“It all sounds very simple,” Catherine said, looking at me. “But I’m quite certain it isn’t, is it?”
“No, it’s not. It’s much more complex. Especially the tending of the vines. The nurturing of them. Through the winter months. And the rest of the year. I tried to make it easy for you to understand.”
“Thank you, and presumably the grapes are picked when they are ripe.”
I nodded. “That’s when the vendangeurs, the grape harvesters, come to pick them. Porteurs, the grape carriers, take the grapes away in bénatons, those big baskets you’ve seen lying around. They move them to the end of each row in the vineyard. From there the bénatons are carried to the winery, and the grapes are put in the cellars ready for vinification.”
“Is the picking done by hand?”
“Yes. Olivier and I prefer it to mechanized harvesting. That’s become popular in some parts in France. But it would be difficult here. On these slopes. Also, there’s less chance of damage when the grapes are hand picked.”
“What happens next in the process?”
“The wine is made, of course. It’s stored in huge vats and casks in the cuverie. The vat room. I think I showed it to you. When I took you down into the cave, the big wine cellars, at Christmas.”
She nodded. “I remember.” She tilted her head to one side. “How do you know so much about wine making?”
“I don’t know that much,” I said. “I’ve still got a lot to learn. But it was mostly Olivier. He taught me. He started me out. When I was sixteen. When Sebastian gave me the château. Fourteen years later I don’t know half he does. Even though I went to the University of Toulouse. To study the science of wine and wine making. Oenological training in France lasts for four years.